


The Prayer of Going Nowhere

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2012, Alternate Universe, Future Fic, M/M, Season: 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only trace left of his grace beats like a soul must beat inside a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prayer of Going Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/gifts).



> [Originally posted [here]().]

Behind the shack with their meager supplies of armory, sits a small square of earth, the soil a rich red in contrasts with the sludge of calcareous, sterile soil that surrounds the camp. It's unusual, and Castiel would have called it a miracle once, but he doesn't now. What he does is grabbing a handful of soft earth to feel the grains stick in the space between his fingers and the wet consistency of it inside the cup of his palm before he lets it fall. It leaves his hand stained no matter how long he rubs them together. 

It's January, and someone is having an argument somewhere about toilet paper.

*

Sometimes toward the end of December, heading south toward Wichita, they found the camp that would become their home. 

"Are you sure we're on the I35, Sam?" Dean asked without turning from navigating the car through a trail of abandoned vehicles with their soft underbellies of wires turned skyward and bodies rotting in a weak sun.

Castiel, sitting in the backseat, looked as Sam as he consulted his map. He curled his hand on the worn upholstery, and ignored how easy it'd been once to always know where he was, sensing with a small expansion of his waning grace the physical, limited space and time of humans like a smooth continuum.

"Yes, Dean," said Sam and then he braced himself on the dash when Dean veered sharply to avoid a red, small car straddled sideways over two lanes, the doors still open like its occupants had left them. 

Castiel tilted sideways, not as fast to brace himself, and he ended against the glass, his eyes landing on the body of a bearded man wearing a checkered shirt, his belly so bloated with gas Castiel wondered if he'd explode.

"We should leave the highway two exits down, then 30 miles west on the 177 and we should be there."

Castiel kept looking at the body as they drove on. One of the cars behind in their line, the jeep with the black soft top, went over one of his leg turning the man gently on his side. Vera, at the wheel, grimaced and waved her right arm at her son sitting on the passenger's seat.

*

There is a war to fight – there's always a war to fight – so Castiel can't give enough time as he wants to his gardening project, but he does what he can, stealing books from the shelves at a Wall Mart on one of the raids to gather supplies, he takes seeds and bulbs without knowing what they are for. He gets a brittle smile out of Dean when he catches him with his coat overstuffed with them and Castiel smiles back and then bows his head and then shoots a cross between a vampire and a rugaru when he catches the shadow of it looming at Dean's back. 

Dean brushes blood from the side of his face that leaves a smudge of red; a nod of his head as thank you. Sam, probably alarmed by the noise, appears at the end of the aisle, and then pats Castiel on his back when he realizes what's happened, awkward as usual when he sees Castiel using human weapons to dispatch threats.

It's February and the snow is soft on the ground outside, covering with a treacherous purity the desolation around them. 

But their car is full with powder milk and canned goods and meds and toilet paper and disinfectant and the only thing they leave behind is three sets of footprints on the snow.

*

Because Castiel's eyes tended to gravitate toward Dean's face he saw him blanch when they found the welcome sign to the summer camp hidden behind an intricate mess of growth. Castiel didn't know what Dean saw on the sign that made him recoil; it only had Camp Haroqueen written in bold letters and black paint over wood. 

Castiel saw Dean's shiver and he saw his throat working, and he saw his jaw clenching, and he saw Sam's discreet brush at Dean's back that he masked when he turned around to sign and shout to the others that they had found the place they were searching. Dean broke the rusted lock with two kicks of his steel-toed boots and opened the railed door and then walked in the middle of a square lined by wood cabins. He stood there looking around like he knew the place. Castiel frowned. 

The cars approaching distracted him and distracted Dean. They both turned toward the line of vehicles trawling slowly over a road unused for too long. Vera's jeep first: noisy and smelly but agile even on the bad terrain. The Winnebago, huffing and puffing like an old lady. An old Ford, then, rusted to the bone but with a powerful engine, and two SUVs they'd stolen in Topeka two weeks before when one of their vehicles gave up.

"Getting my car up here will be hell," Dean told Castiel and Castiel nodded.

"I can say goodbye to the suspensions," he continued, but he didn't sound worried or pissed off like the deep scowl on his face would imply.

*

At the end of March, a weird streak of warm days hits Kansas and Castiel sees that the first fragile leaves have plucked from the ground on his way to the morning briefing. Castiel sits looking at their brilliant green until his jeans are wet from the knee down and the dampness from the earth is seeping into his feet from the holes under his boots. It's still cold In Kansas this time of the year and he tugs his wool jacket around himself and imagines the tiny plants getting waist-high in summer curving under the sun and the wind heavy with ripe fruits. 

He doesn't hear Sam coming and that's bad – he knows it – but Sam simply sits beside him and ask how it's going and he has a cup of coffee between his hands, steaming a fragrant scent. 

"You didn't come to the morning reunion," Sam says.

Castiel nods and points to the tiny plants. 

"Ah! Hm-- Your hard job paid off." There's something awkward in Sam's voice when he answers – there's always something awkward in Sam during their conversations - but he doesn't go away.

*

The first night at Haroqueen, Castiel patrolled the perimeter of the camp with Vera, and when they came by the cabin Sam and Dean had taken as their own, he saw the Dean's silhouette sharp and distinctive against the feeble light of the oil lamp. He stared across the space between them watching like he knew he was being watched and only Vera's tug on his arm got him going again. Their steps were silent, but Castiel's feet dragged with the weight of the mud sticking to them, rooted to the earth. He felt Dean's eyes on him all the way to the end of the camp, until he turned the corner and the only light came from the half-moon and the stars that speckled the sky.

He found Dean in his room at the end of his round and he fell into his occupied bed still covered in grime and mud, some distance between them.

Later, when they made love, there was an underlay of desperation to Dean's movements, a frantic quality to them that Castiel found disquieting in a way he couldn't explain. This thing between them was random, the physicality of it a surprise even after Castiel spent months living the human life, forgetful of the horror of the world and of his own fall. Castiel couldn't help but catalogue the differences as Dean moved beneath him. Daphne was soft breasts and hips that rose in generous curves that fit against Castiel's body perfectly. She'd filled all the empty space, those Castiel knew about and those that kept him awake at night during the months of his amnesia. Dean was all sharp edges and hard muscles, and sometimes they hurt, those edges: too much symmetry between them, both lean for the paucity of food, hipbones and ribs too prominent under the thin layer of skin. 

Castiel kissed Dean's collarbone and tasted sweat and salt, tilted his head sideways when Dean mirrored him and wondered what Dean was finding on Castiel's skin, what he was tasting. There was silence between them, usually there was, but Castiel sometimes wished to fill it with words. He used to believe that he could fix the world for Dean, he liked how Dean leaned against Castiel, _believed_. But now that the world was broken because of his own actions it was Dean offering his own body as a lifeline and Castiel was weak enough to grab it, get lost in the warmth of Dean's skin, the play of muscles, the soft breath that left a trail of wetness in its wake. In those moments, he felt like he was rebuilding something, at least.

The strength of his orgasm hit Castiel by surprise and a noise escaped his serrated lips. When he opened his eyes he saw Dean's were closed, his head grounded into the mattress as he too came. 

At dawn a storm hit the camp, rolling thunders that shook the windowpanes and vibrated through Castiel's body as he lay asleep on an empty and dusty bed.

*

By May, words of mouth has spread that the Winchesters have their base at Haroqueen. Small groups have found their way to them, their belongings crammed into the trunk of a car over spring. They never bring food or anything worth for the fight or for survival, utterly unprepared and desperate, the stress visible on their paleness, on the unsmiling faces of the kids. 

Sam and Dean are in the middle of the proceeding, offering reassurances and smiles to the kids, directions to the traumatized adults. They're both bruised from their last recon mission, Dean favoring his side as inconspicuously as he can, Sam tall beside him. Castiel's fingers curl, hitching to heal. He's utterly helpless with that, though. His grace, already faint after the fight he'd wagered in his own mind against Lucifer, gone with one last whimper. 

The only trace left beats like a soul must beat inside a man and is all tarnished and limping with his mistakes. He's got only a body, now, as fragile and breakable as any other human. He'd consider it his penance for his pride, only he doesn't feel punished.

Castiel looks at Sam and Dean, going through the routine checking for the virus while he plucks the growth that's threatening to strangle his plants. His hands are stained red with the rich, red soil of Kansas.

When he's done, he stands; looks at his tiny garden: there are tomatoes growing under the leaves, still green, acerbic, the skin tense and shiny, but so perfectly rounded and beautiful.

\--


End file.
